


for which no words exist

by MediaWhore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anxious Dean Winchester, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Castiel Whump (Supernatural), Damnit, Dean Winchester Uses Actual Words, Dean Winchester is Bad at Feelings, Emotionally Repressed Dean Winchester, Hair Washing, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Human Castiel in the Men of Letters Bunker (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Newly Human Castiel (Supernatural), Overwhelmed Castiel (Supernatural), Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Episode: s15e18 Despair, Post-Episode: s15e19 Inherit the Earth, Touch-Starved Dean Winchester, also non explicit talks/description of throwing up, and since the cw were too lazy to deliver on something, awkward tenderness, but he tries very hard, deancas being soft and awkward and in love with each other, finale denialists unite !, i know it can make some people queasy, i'm a big fan of the vague magic fix it so we can focus on what's important:, in which being human is A Lot but dean is there this time, reciprocated love, that was literally on a silver platter for them to grab onto... i will, the cw fucked up so bad that we deserve EVERY VERSION that fixes it, there's a tiny tiny sprinkle of:, very little plot a lot of comfort, we deserved the impeccable narrative parallel of dean saving cas from the empty, well... close enough haha, yes everyone and their mother has written this fic already but oh well!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28329552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MediaWhore/pseuds/MediaWhore
Summary: 'a prayer for which no words exist' // richard siken"Dear Cas who art in my bathtub, give me the strength to be honest about how I feel. For your sake and for mine. Forgive me all the times I wasn’t in the past, all the words I should have said but didn’t. And please stay. Please stay with me when all is said and done. Amen. "Dean rescues a newly human Cas from the Empty. That's the easy step.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 73
Kudos: 953





	for which no words exist

**Author's Note:**

> in 2020 we go back to spn like whipped bitches because the themes are.... IT. 
> 
> fair warning folks: one - this is my first spn fic and b - i still haven't seen s7-11 so we're going to call this 'canon-ish' at best. everything i know about those missing seasons comes from tumblr gifsets... but, considering the person i wrote this fic for hasn't really seen those either, i guess it doesn't really matter? anything that doesn't quite fit canon (pre 15x19), we'll pretend i did it on purpose ?? ? 
> 
> anyways !!! kasia darling, i am so glad you have fallen in the depth of deancas insanity with me this year; it truly has been a blast. this little nonsense of a fic has very little plot and was basically just an excuse to write dean washing cas' hair. still, it is my (slightly belated) Christmas gift to you and i hope it brings a smile to your face. love you xx 
> 
> i plotted this at 7am after a full night of insomnia and wrote part of it half-asleep at 4am the next few nights. sleep-deprived me really likes to think about the thematic parallels in cw's supernatural i guess. anyways, blame her for this.

_"Like a prayer for which no words exist."_

_Richard Siken_

When the empty spits out Cas, naked and covered in black goo, dirt and _is that blood?_ Dean barely has the time to sort through the mixture of _relief/elation/joy/tension/nerves/anxiety_ that his dumbass plan to go after him _worked_ before Cas, pale and shivery, pukes his guts out on the bunker floor. 

_Fuck_. 

“Cas!” Dean says, half a groan, half a whimper – he sounds more worried than he means to – before he runs to where Cas is wiping his mouth with a shaky hand, on his knees, one palm still on the floor, barely holding himself up. 

Something is wrong. Something is really wrong and of course, it is, of course, it would be. Dean can’t have one thing go right, just this once. 

He hardens his expression before kneeling next to Cas on the floor, dismisses any traces of panic as he slowly presses a hand in the middle of Cas’ back like he’s a spooked horse; like they’re both spooked horses. 

Cas jumps at the touch, nervous or in pain, Dean can’t tell. 

“Dean,” Cas whispers, unsure, scared, eyes still fixed on the floor and he heaves again, a painful sound rattling in his chest. 

Okay, Dean thinks, edging towards frantic. It’s going to be okay. Then, to convince himself, he says so out loud: “Yeah, it’s me, buddy, you’re going to be okay.” 

Cas vomits again. 

Maybe not quite fully okay then.

Dean shushes Cas comfortingly instead of saying so, his hand heavy on Cas’ naked back. Touching him anywhere but where his hand is pressed feels like a minefield and it’s such a stupid thing to worry about at a time like this that Dean hates himself for it the minute he thinks it. But he thinks it. 

Now is not the time for that, not when Cas is so unwell, visibly shaken and visibly shaking. 

“I’m –” Dean starts in a strangled voice before stopping, realising he doesn’t know what to do. 

He doesn’t know what’s going wrong. He didn’t plan much beyond getting into the Empty in the first place, had assumed he’d failed when he was thrown back into the world, into the bunker, violently, his back hitting one of the bookshelves in the library with a loud thud, an ache he assumes he’s going to feel for weeks blossoming across his body. Cas being just as violently thrown right after him was a surprise, the unexpected success story, but now Dean, looking at the pallor of his skin, looking at the sheen of sweat in the back of his neck, looking at his trembling figure, isn’t so sure this is a victory. 

“What’s wrong?” he finally asks in a small voice, hoping maybe Cas, no matter how unwell he is, will know. Maybe the Empty said something to him before… “Did it bring you back wrong?” he can’t help himself from adding, voice rougher now at the thought. “Did I…” but he can’t bring himself to ask the question, can’t bring himself to even hint that this might have been a mistake, that he might have selfishly ruined Cas’ eternal peace only for him to die again just now, but painfully. 

His heart is beating so violently in his chest Dean feels dizzy with it. Fear, worry, confusion; it’s all the same right now, all of it like poison in his veins making it hard to focus. He tightens the hand not pressed on Cas’ back into a fist, trying to get a grip on himself, and he almost misses it when Cas shakes his head, eyes still fixed on the floor. 

He’s on all fours now, still not looking at Dean. They haven’t looked at each other once, not face to face, not face on, not that Dean is keeping track or anything. The shaking seems to have worsened now, actually, and it’s not until Cas’ teeth start chattering that Dean figures he’s probably cold. 

“No, I’m –” Cas starts saying, voice hoarse, just as Dean exclaims “hang on!”, finally letting go of Cas’ back, getting back on his feet and running through the disordered library, the evidence of many all-nighters scattered across the tables and the floor, until he reaches the green blanket he left in one corner a few days ago. 

Dean has to admit he looked and sounded a lot more awesome in his fantasy. Not that he allowed himself a lot of time to daydream about reuniting with Castiel, the fear it wouldn’t happen, the pain of the loss, too tangible for him to lose himself in the comfort of an imagined rescue. But when he did… Well, Cas wasn’t in pain for starters. And Dean had more to say that half-hearted reassurance. The reality of it is cold and scary and Dean feels… Dean feels utterly helpless, wants so fiercely to fix it and doesn’t know how. 

But Cas is freezing. And Dean, hurrying back to his side, fingers tightly clutched around the blanket, can try to fix _that_ at least. 

“Dean, I’m –” Cas tries to speak again, only to stop straight away, inhaling sharply. Dean can see his jaw tightening as he kneels next to him again, carefully wrapping the blanket around his shoulders, letting his arm hold Cas for one second – just one – before he leans away, choosing to rub his hand over the blanket between Cas’ shoulder blades to create heat instead. 

“What is it?” Dean asks, not realising he’s whispering until it’s out of his mouth. 

Cas shakes his head, eyes closed as he’s clearly hit with another wave of pain. Dean looks at him, really looks at him, and he feels his heart drop in his stomach. Without thinking he reaches for a bit of dirt near Cas’ temple, carefully brushing it off, wondering how something that is by definition void of _anything_ managed to roughen Cas up so thoroughly. Cas hums, leaning into the touch, and Dean is suddenly, violently, reminded of the Angel Castiel was, back when they first met, calculating and cold and powerful beyond a human brain’s comprehension, but orbiting Dean just the same, the two of them tangled together from the first second. 

“Just… tell me how to help, alright Cas? I’ll…” Dean trails off, the ‘I’ll do anything’ stuck in his throat. He doesn’t have to say it, even if he’d like to at some point. They both know. 

“It’s going to be fine, Dean,” Cas finally manages to say, eyes still closed. “I’m going to be fine. I just…” He pauses, then exhales. “The Empty wouldn’t let me leave with my grace,” he finally admits.

“You mean,” Dean stops rubbing Cas’ back, “you’re human?” 

After what feels like an eternity of silence where Dean is too shocked to press the issue, Cas finally tilts his head, stops looking at the dirty floor, soiled with black goo and bodily fluid, and meets Dean’s eyes. The last time they looked at each other head-on, Cas died and Dean’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest at the reminder. For a long second, it feels like time slows down, then, Cas nods in answer to Dean’s question, a small, almost imperceptible gesture, and the moment is broken. 

“But –” Dean starts rubbing Cas’ back again when he’s hit with a full body shiver. Fuck, Dean hates this. 

“It’s nothing to be worried about,” Cas says firmly, in his ‘I am a millennia-old celestial being and I do know better than you actually’ voice, and the fact that he looks so pale, so small, does nothing to diminish its impact. 

But Dean has over a decade of arguing with him under his belt and he’s hardly intimidated by that tone anymore. “Cas, you’re a mess,” he says, aiming for stern but landing somewhere along the line of plaintiveness. Okay, not his best work, but he _is_ worried. 

“It’s just…” Cas looks like he’s struggling for a second before settling on “growing pains.” Cas heaves once again – it looks painful – and, for a moment, Dean thinks he’s going to puke one more time so he slides his hand up, wrapping it around the nape of Cas’ neck in silent support. “I’ll be fine after I’ve rested.” 

“But… It wasn’t like this last time? ” Dean whispers and this is not something he particularly wants to revisit, old shame curling in his belly. Cas… Cas always deserved better than Dean could offer, he knows that. He knows all the specific ways he’s let him down over the years, the guilt of it never quite far from the front of Dean’s mind. Dean with his anger and the right words always getting stuck in his throat, the wrong ones spewing out of his mouth like bullets, the only language he ever learned to speak. “Are you… Are you sure there isn’t something actually wrong, Cas? You’re sure this isn’t like when Jack lost his grace? I mean, okay, you’re human, but you… you look ill, and –” 

“Dean, please. I just…” Cas shakes his head, what looks like centuries of exhaustion poured into the movement. “I just need some sleep,” he finally says in an empty voice. “Please.”

It’s that final _please_ that undoes Dean completely. He swallows, hard. Trust him to do this all wrong too. “Yeah, yeah alright.” He agrees softly, squeezing Cas’ neck once before leaning away from him. “Here, let me help you,” he adds as he gets up to his feet, holding a hand out for Cas to grab. 

Cas shivers when their fingers slot together and hisses when Dean’s other hand reaches for his elbow over the blanket, helping him stand. 

“Are you…” Dean stops speaking when their eyes meet. There’s fear in Cas’ eyes. Fear and shame and gratefulness and something so small and vulnerable that it shuts Dean right up. 

Cas nods. “It’s… a lot,” he admits in a small voice, looking away, and Dean wishes he didn’t feel the urge to hide, but he can’t imagine what it feels like to suddenly be thrust back into the world fundamentally _different._

 _Hell_ , his brain unhelpfully supplies, reminding him that he does, in fact, know. He dismisses the thought, as he always does when the topic of his time downstairs is brought to the front of his mind. 

He does soften though, rubbing his thumb on the back of Cas’ hand in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. Dean couldn’t even admit he remembered Hell when he first got out, he can hardly fault Cas for looking away, even if he doesn’t want him to feel like he has to. 

Cas’ hand tightens in Dean’s. 

“It…. It all feels… new,” Cas finally adds, slowly, painfully, like every word is costing him. “It’s a lot,” he repeats in a mumble, to himself, the low rumble of his voice still comforting for Dean who, for the past few months, thought he would never hear it again. “Being human, it’s….” Cas shakes his head, the puzzled expression on his face alien and angel-like, a reminder it’s still _Cas_ under all those new human tremors. 

Dean swallows, hard, suddenly moved without fully knowing why. Naively, he thought maybe the fact that Cas has done this before would make it easier, but he’d be the first to admit that he didn’t exactly have an easy go of it. And this? This is worse, as per Cas’ admission. 

“Yeah,” Dean agrees for lack of a better thing to say, fussing with Cas a bit, making sure the blanket is still wrapped tightly around his naked body, flicking black goo off his hair like a mother hen. They’re still holding hands and the feel of Cas’ skin is burning a hole in Dean’s palm. Did touching him always feel like this? “Let’s get you horizontal, right?” he adds when Cas sways on his feet, letting go of Cas’ hand to wrap his arm around his waist instead, helping him stay up.

They make their way through the bunker slowly, in silence, until they reach the corridor leading to the bedrooms. Dean hesitates for a beat before leading Cas towards his old bedroom, a door he’s been avoiding even looking at ever since Cas was ripped from him. Opening it while supporting Cas’ weight is clumsier than Dean would like, the ache in his back twitching a little as he twists his body to make it happen. He’s going to regret the moves tomorrow when the bruise aches something fiercer, but Dean would take a lot more pain, for a lot longer, for Cas’ sake. 

When the door finally opens, Dean is struck once again with how empty, how void, of personal touches Cas’ room remained throughout the years, a stark reminder that Dean could have done more, could have done better, to get him to stay, to make him feel welcome. He does feel slightly ridiculous, stepping foot into the bedroom now, after avoiding it for so long. There’s nothing in here that was so terrifying for him to confront. 

There’s nothing in here. 

Maybe that’s why Dean was afraid of it. But with the comforting weight of Cas at his side, Dean doesn’t feel as haunted. 

“There we go, there we go,” Dean mumbles to himself as they stumble through the room until they reach the small bed. 

Cas exhales when he finally sits down, like this required a tremendous amount of effort, and he starts leaning forward, eyes closing. For a second, Dean thinks he’s about to pass out, that he’s going to fall off the bed, so he says a small ‘woah’, putting both of his hands on Cas’ shoulders to keep him upright.

“Alright?” he asks in a soft voice instead of shaking Cas awake in a panic like he wants to. He really still isn’t looking very good, and Dean is trying to find it in himself to trust Cas’ judgement on his own health and safety, but he can’t help the worry gnawing at the pit of his stomach. 

Cas nods, not even opening his eyes. He looks incredibly tiny for a second, and filthy. Dean hadn’t realised how much while he was curled up on the floor, but debris from the Empty, from God – Jack, Dean mentally corrects – knows what and where sticking to his skin. It must be uncomfortable, but Cas looks two seconds away from passing out so Dean swallows back down his offer to help him get cleaned up. 

“Do you still feel like throwing up?” Dean asks when a pained expression passes on Cas’ face. 

He shakes his head and Dean nods even though he knows Cas can’t see him. 

“Okay, why don’t you lie down. Do you need clothes or –” Dean stops speaking when Cas lets himself fall sideways on the bed, like maybe all he was waiting for was Dean’s permission. He’s asleep the minute his head hits the pillow and Dean spends a few minutes fiddling with the covers and the sheets, making sure he’s properly wrapped up, making sure he’s warm, before stepping away. 

Cas is still shivering in his sleep, though Dean is doubtful it’s from the cold considering nothing is showing of him except small strands of dirty dark hair, his full body bundled under the covers. 

Dean takes a step back away from the bed, then another, until he’s leaning against the door, head hitting it with a small thud. He exhales slowly and surprises himself when he feels his eyes water. Cas is fine. He’s going to be fine, Dean repeats to himself. He’s not sure why he’s being so…. about it, when Cas is right here. 

_Cas is right here._

Dean closes his eyes tightly for a second before rubbing at them. Against his every instinct, he leaves the room. 

Cas is probably going to be a while and Dean is going to drive himself crazy if he just sits down and watches him sleep for hours, no matter how much he wants to. And fuck, he really wants to. But it’s an indulgence he won’t allow himself, not when there’s such a mess for him to clean up in the library. 

First though, he makes his way towards the kitchen, grabbing a glass and filling it with water once he gets there. Then, he gets a bowl from the pantry too before silently returning to Cas’ bedroom, leaving both on his bedside table, easily accessible if needs be while Dean is busy. His hand hovers for a moment over Cas’ head, the temptation to stroke his hair, to soothe the trembling figure, suddenly overwhelming. But Dean shakes his head, forcing himself to leave again. 

It seems rather unfair to leave him when they’ve been separated for so long, when they’ve been separated so often in their decade of friendship, but Dean physically cannot stay still right now without making himself sick with worry. He keeps opening and closing his fists while he stares at the sleeping angel – ex-angel – hands desperate for something to do, something to keep them busy. 

For a moment, Dean wonders what Cas might be dreaming about now that he’s human again. He wonders if he’s so tired that his entire mind is blank while he recharges; if a dreamless sleep like that might remind him of the Empty; if it’s something that could be distressing. What if he has a nightmare and wakes up alone? Should Dean stay in case Cas wakes up confused?

No. He needs to sort out the library. There’s still puke and black goo all over the floor, an entire bookshelf of books and scrolls and volumes scattered everywhere after Dean was thrown against it, not to mention the result of days and days of neglect while Dean was researching the best way to sneak into the Empty; dirty plates and notebooks as well as too many coffee mugs for Dean to own up to spread around the tables. Some of them on the floor. It’s a mess and clearly, Dean thinks, as he gives Cas one last look before finally leaving the room, he’s got time. 

He should probably text Sam back at some point too before he drives to the bunker in a panic that Dean off-ed himself in a drunken grief-fueled rage. No matter how much Dean told him he was _fine_ and that Sam could enjoy his time away with Eileen, the kid _worries._ He’s not quite sure how he’s going to explain the whole ‘I went and got Cas behind your back and without your help, because I was too chickenshit to tell you what happened before he died back then and I didn’t know what was going to happen if we were reunited’ thing. Dean still doesn’t know what’s going to happen, doesn’t know if Cas being human changes things, if he meant what he said, if he wants to forget the whole thing, if he…. He just doesn’t know. 

This is going to be hard enough without an audience, the last thing Dean needs is Sam’s well-intentioned meddling. 

As he grabs a few cleaning supplies before heading to the library, Dean figures he should probably cook something for Cas too, for when he’ll wake up. He’s going to have so many human needs to take care of again, the least Dean can do is help. Something light though, something that’ll be easy on his stomach, but filling enough so he can build his strength back. Some sort of broth perhaps? 

He’s still thinking about it, mentally making a weekly recovery meal plan for Cas as he mops the vomit off the floor. 

* 

“Have you been sitting there watching me the whole time?” Cas asks, still half asleep, squinting at Dean from the bed, fuck knows how many hours later. 

Technically, no. 

Dean cleaned up and cooked just like he planned, only stopping by Cas’ room once or twice every hour. He even man-ed up and called Sam, successfully convincing him that everything is _great_ and Dean hasn’t done anything weird or ill-advised without talking to him about it first. Ok, he straight up lied to his brother, but… There’ll be time to tell Sam once Cas feels better, once Dean knows where they stand. Sam sounded worried, obviously, because when doesn’t he when it comes to Dean since Cas died. He probably remembers last time as vividly as Dean does; the way he jumped on that chance to play dead, the way he didn’t even care if he was brought back or not, the whole world a fuzzy, blurry _whatever_ of despair without Cas in it. Dean has been more focused this time around, deep into problem-solving mode, even though Sam wasn’t told about it. Still, no matter how well they know each other, Dean is a good fibber and Sam was well-reassured by the time they hung up. Besides, get him to talk about Eileen for a bit and he’s easily distracted, no matter how worried about his big brother he gets. Dean knows how to play that kid like a fiddle. 

That was hours and hours ago though, Dean’s legs and back stiff from sitting in the same position on the floor of Cas’ room for most of them. Suddenly embarrassed, he bristles. “You can talk.” 

At that, Cas smiles half-heartedly, before frowning, only a little. 

In the face of Castiel’s continued discomfort, Dean’s dignity seems relatively unimportant which is why he gets up and quickly approaches the bed like something truly dramatic happened rather than a simple shift in Cas’ expression. 

“You okay?” he asks. “Feeling better?” 

Cas swallows hard before nodding slowly. “I uh…” he clears his throat, loud, which leads him into a small coughing fit. 

“Here,” Dean says gently, grabbing the glass of water he left on Cas’ nightstand and handing it to him, waiting patiently – okay, mostly impatiently, but Dean is _worried_ – for him to be done before speaking again. “Seriously Cas, you scared me back there. How are you feeling?” 

Cas hums, eyes fixed on the glass of water. “I still feel… quite tired,” he admits and he looks and sounds it, shoulders hunched forwards and dark circles under his eyes, skin still taut and pale. He’s not really shivery anymore, but Dean is suddenly, irrationally, too scared to touch him to check if he has a fever. “But I no longer feel ‘like death’,” Cas adds the last part as a joke, the corner of his lips turning up and one of his hands letting go of the glass to make a small quotation mark gesture. 

He can’t be too badly off if he’s joking? Right? Dean swallows hard before reaching for the glass, seeing the way Cas’ grip on it is slack at best.

“Alright, well that’s good, right? Maybe… Maybe you just need to sleep some more, uh?” Dean offers, truly at loss. 

Cas nods. “Yes, that would be advisable,” he says matter-of-factly before wrinkling his nose in distaste. 

“What is it?” 

Cas shakes his head, a slight movement before he starts squirming in his blanket. 

“Cas?” 

“It’s… nothing,” Cas replies, sounding uncertain, before raising a hand to scratch at his collarbones underneath the blanket that Dean wrapped carefully around him. “Just feels…” he trails off, looking lost for a second, and Dean wonders if he’s about to pass out or something when Cas grimaces visibly. “Itchy,” he finally settles on, seeming offended by the concept. “I… forgot,” he mumbles, mostly to himself.

Dean smiles softly, unable to stop himself, and if it’s more fond than he’d normally like to let on then that’s his business. “Yeah, welcome to humanity again pal. It comes with all sorts of discomfort.” 

Cas hums, half agreement, half pained moan. 

“Still hurts?’ Dean asks, all teasing gone from his voice. 

Cas nods, still rubbing at his skin, with more intensity now, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it, like he’s trying to scrub himself raw. 

“Hey,” Dean says, reaching for Cas’ wrist, stopping the movement. He tightens his grip for a second, a pulse of a touch, morse code on Cas’ skin that only Dean understands. “Why don’t we get you cleaned up? You’ll feel much better once you aren’t covered in….” Dean hesitates for a beat, before going with, “the Empty’s spit.” 

Cas nods, docile and still looking thoroughly exhausted, not even trying to smile – or roll his eyes – at Dean’s feeble attempt at humour. “Yes, I think that would be preferable,” he declares before trying to get up from the bed. 

He stumbles a little, still clinging to that first blanket Dean gave him, but manages to steady himself, one hand against the wall, the other not letting go of the fabric. Dean hovers close just in case, scared this little boost of energy Cas seems to be having isn’t here to last. 

“You alright to walk?” Dean finally asks after a few long seconds of Cas slowly breathing in and out, leaning against the wall. Hypnotised, Dean follows the movement of his chest rising and falling under the blanket while waiting for a reply. 

“I’m… not sure,” Cas admits after a while, and when Dean looks back at his face, his mouth is turned down in clear displeasure. At the pain or the weakness, Dean can’t quite tell. Perhaps both. 

“That’s alright,” Dean says as comfortingly as he can manage, taking a small step forward. “I’ve got you,” he adds, wrapping an arm around Cas’ waist to support him. 

It takes them a while to get to the bathroom even though it isn’t that far, and once they do, Cas lets out a very long exhale. Clearly, despite the rest, everything is taking a toll. He presses a hand to his stomach, looking queasy. 

“You gonna throw up again?” 

“I’m not sure,” Cas says again, voice low. He still looks puzzled, looking down at the human body that’s more his than ever like he can’t fully understand it. Or maybe Dean is reading too much into it, maybe Cas just feels like utter crap. 

“Okay,” Dean replies, slowly turning Cas’ body towards the sink – closer than the toilet – just in case. “Just do what you gotta do, buddy,” he whispers, rubbing Cas’ back. 

It takes a little while, but eventually, Cas does puke again, mostly bile, and it sounds just as painful as before. Dean makes a few comforting noises in the back of his throat as it happens, his hand never leaving Cas’ back. It should feel weirder than it is, Dean thinks vaguely. He never allows himself to touch Cas this long, even in life-threatening situations. But it’s not. It’s not weird at all, it feels right in ways Dean doesn’t want to think about too much. 

Not yet, at least. There’ll be time… Later. When Cas feels better. When Dean is more composed, when he…

When Cas is done, Dean takes a step to the side, still close enough to catch him if he stumbles, before grabbing some mouthwash and offering it to him. Cas grunts his thanks before chasing the terrible taste out of his mouth. 

It’s typical of their lives and their luck that Cas’ return to life, to humanity, is marked with pain and disgust when all he deserves is the best the world has to offer. 

Once he’s better, Dean thinks, they’ll go on a trip. He’ll take Cas somewhere warm and nice, where he can lounge and let his skin pinken under the sun, somewhere with water to swim in, where they can be rocked softly, weightless, by the waves, by the beauty of the world they saved countless times but never enjoyed. Somewhere where Cas can eat good food, where he can _be_ without worries, for once.

If… If he wants to stay, of course. 

“Why don’t you get in the shower while I get you some clean clothes?” Dean offers, gently nudging Cas towards the tub. 

It quickly becomes apparent that Cas isn’t well enough to make it there on his own, so Dean wraps his arm around Cas again and helps him in.

“You gonna be okay in there?” Dean asks, watching with careful eyes as Cas leans his entire weight against the shower wall. 

He doesn’t look like he’ll be able to take the blanket off his shoulders, let alone turn the shower on, but Dean isn’t going to hover. No matter how much his fingers hitch to do it all for him. There are some things a man – well, an ex celestial being newly turned human – is entitled privacy for. Cas deserves a moment alone, so Dean swallows back down his worry, his fear, his _need_ , and quickly tells Cas he _is_ going to grab clothes and a towel for him if he wants to start cleaning himself up in the meantime. 

Then, he leaves the bathroom and doesn’t look back. 

Except, instead of making his way straight to his bedroom to grab what he said he would, Dean leans against the cold wall of the corridor, exhaling slowly. 

Seeing Cas so vulnerable is harder than he thought it would be, it tugs at something in his lower belly, makes him shake with a fierce need to wrap him up in his arms and never let go again. Not after the Empty, not after all the ways he’s lost him before. Except Dean needs to take care of _Cas_ now, not indulge the greedy selfish monster that lives inside of him, the one that orders his little brother around to protect him in his old man’s name, the one that’s so scared of being alone and will never say, the one that clings angrily and leaves claw marks on those he doesn’t want to let go of. 

Cas deserves better than that. Right now, Cas deserves all the gentleness in the world and that’s what Dean is going to give him. The softest towel, the softest clothes, the softest blanket… The softest touches… 

And if Cas, no matter what he said before he let the Empty take him, wants to leave and be human somewhere else, with someone else, afterwards, then Dean is going to accept that. He didn’t rescue him to keep him after all. He’s a selfish bastard, but he’s not that selfish. 

Dean nods to himself, passing a shaky hand through his hair before finally going to his bedroom, rummaging through his drawers for something good for Cas to wear. He tries not to overthink it too much, grabbing the loosest sweatpants he owns and a soft, almost threadbare, henley. Then, he gets a big fluffy towel and his bathrobe, just in case. 

When he makes it back to the bathroom, his heart breaks a little seeing that Cas hasn’t even moved, still leaning against the shower wall, dirty as ever, the blanket hanging sadly from his shoulders. Dean can’t see his face, but he assumes he has his eyes closed, still trying to rest. Every once in a while, he scratches his torso, clearly still bothered by the layer of filth on his body. 

He’s still shaking. 

He looks smaller than he ever has and Dean can’t help but clench his jaw at the sight. 

It doesn’t seem right.

“Here,” Dean says, putting the clothes and the towel over the toilet seat before walking to the shower. “Let me,” he adds in a whisper, taking charge gently, but firmly, grabbing the blanket off of him, wrinkling his nose at the slime on it and discarding it in an empty corner of the bathroom. He can take care of that later. 

Then, he slowly nudges Cas down, so he can sit in the tub, his knees bent in a semblance of modesty. Dean wonders if it’s as hard for him to accept help as it is for Dean, if maybe he’s making things worse by highlighting how much Cas can’t do this for himself right now. 

“There we go,” Dean continues to babble as he crouches down next to the tub, turning the water on, adjusting the temperature, fiddling a bit to waste time, trying to fill in the silence with as many inane things as he can in a vain attempt to be comforting.

Maybe he is just emphasizing the awkwardness of it all, but he can’t seem to stop. 

Usually, highly emotional situations rob him of his tongue, but now, nervous like he’s never been before, Dean can’t seem to shut the fuck up. 

He makes a show of humming as he waits for the water to warm up, makes a show of telling Cas it’ll only be a second when he notices him shivering, makes a big show of saying it’s all going to be okay. 

Once he’s happy with the temperature of the water coming off the tap, Dean gets up to grab the showerhead, clicking it on before properly kneeling next to the tub, getting comfortable to help Cas wash up. 

He hisses the second Dean first starts wetting his hair and Dean grimaces before asking: “S’not too hot, is it?”, one hand reaching for the nape of Cas’ neck. 

“No,” he replies, mostly to himself it seems, head bowed down. 

“Alright,” Dean mumbles, putting the showerhead down to grab his shampoo, pouring a generous amount in his hand before touching Cas again. 

It feels strange to be doing this for him, or maybe it feels strange that it doesn’t feel stranger, feels strange how much he wants to do it, but Dean swallows all of those weird feelings down, choosing instead to focus on making Cas feel better, passing his fingers slowly through his hair, making sure he’s washing every strand, taking the time to massage his scalp when Cas lets out a small moan that’s not pained for once. Dean repeats the movement Cas liked a few times, scratching his scalp front to back, letting his soapy hands rest on Cas’ shoulders for a beat, feeling the warmth of him, before reaching for the showerhead again. 

“Careful with your eyes,” Dean instructs before starting to rinse the shampoo off, grimacing when the water sliding down his back comes out a little bloody. 

What the hell happened to him in there?

Next, Dean grabs soap and a washcloth to get started on Cas’ body. But he flinches at the touch of the cloth on his skin, too sensitive perhaps, Dean doesn’t know. He still hums in agreement though, dropping the cloth at the bottom of the tub straight away, soaping up his hands instead, careful when he tries again. 

Dean looks at his hands, soft on Castiel’s back. They’re strong sturdy hands, made for hard work and they have worked hard. They’ve killed and they’ve beaten; they’ve tortured and they’ve threatened; they’ve caused a lot of harm in the name of the family business. Carved by his father’s hands into his father’s hands. Dean can’t look at them without seeing his old man, fingers wrapped around a drink or a weapon. The older he’s gotten, the worst it is; the same calluses, the same veins, the same knuckles, the same wrinkles. Even the lines in the palms, unique to all, echo the one who taught him to tighten his hand into a fist and _hit_. Sometimes, irrationally, Dean envies Sam’s hands. They’re not Winchester hands. They’re Campbell’s or someone else’s up their line, but they’re not John Winchester’s, the fingers longer, the palm narrower… 

But maybe, Dean thinks as he very carefully, very tenderly, washes Cas’ back, his fingers barely a pressure on Cas’ skin, attentive to every tremor as he rinses the soap off, maybe they are Castiel’s hands too, remade by him bone by bone, tendon by tendon, pore by pore, infused with his grace, with his belief, when he raised Dean from hell. Not unlike Eve made from her lover’s ribs. Maybe, now that Chuck is gone, Dean can finally let his hands be good for this too. 

Maybe, when he looks down, he can stop seeing John Winchester’s hands. 

Dean moves from Cas’ back to his shoulders, down his arms, to his own hands. He washes them, finger by finger, scrubbing the dirt and the blood off Cas’ fingernails. He remembers doing this for Sammy when he was little, finger sticky with whatever Dean fed him that day, remembers the purity of it, the innocence, helping Sam because he was too small to do it himself and Dean loved him.

Most days, Dean doesn’t think there is anything pure left in what he feels for Cas. It’s selfish and greedy. It’s hungry when he lets himself really feel it, half-drunk with a hand on himself. But not today, not now. Not anymore. 

If Cas can believe in him enough to die for him, if Dean himself can tell God off for believing the worst of him, then maybe Dean can be the better version of himself from now on. 

For Cas, he definitely wants to try. 

*

Once they’re done, Dean turns off the water and when he turns back to look at him, Cas has his arms wrapped around his legs, head bowed against his knees. For a second, Dean wonders if he’s praying, but Cas doesn’t know about Jack yet, doesn’t know about Chuck, doesn’t know anything that’s happened since he was taken. Though, Dean supposes, Castiel might not have killed the habit even after learning the God he spent so long devoted to was unworthy of it. Dean certainly never stopped praying to Cas, even after he died. He suspects he’ll pray to Cas until the day he bites it, even if he can’t hear it anymore. Watching him now, human and _here_ , Dean automatically sends a small prayer to him before he can stop himself.

_Dear Cas who art in my bathtub, give me the strength to be honest about how I feel. For your sake and for mine. Forgive me all the times I wasn’t in the past, all the words I should have said but didn’t. And please stay. Please stay with me when all is said and done. Amen._

He could say it now, if he had the courage. But Cas still looks so small, so overwhelmed… And Dean… Dean swallows it all back down. He certainly has enough practice doing that. 

It’s just… Not yet. 

Instead, he stretches, leans as far as he can, to grab the towel from the toilet seat. 

Silently, Dean starts drying Cas’ hair, slow, careful, smiling to himself when he stops and sees the mess he’s made, strands of hair sticking up everywhere, making Cas look like a kid. Dean puts the towel over his shoulder for a second, reaching up and combing through Cas’ hair with his fingers, trying to arrange it as neatly as he can, slowing down and taking his time when he notices Cas’ shoulders relaxing. 

After a while, he stops, stroking the back of Cas’ right ear with his knuckles before getting up and offering him a hand. Together, with Cas holding on tightly, they manage to dry the rest of his body, the gestures a lot more hurried, more methodical this time. 

It takes a while, and a bit of stumbling, but eventually, Cas is finally clean and dry, wrapped up in Dean’s clothes, the sight of it more satisfying than Dean ever expected. His hair is a mess again after putting the henley on, but Dean just smiles and lets it be. As a finishing touch, he holds his bathrobe up for Cas to slide into, shaking his head and making a small tutting noise when Cas opens his mouth to refuse it. He helps Cas put it on, then fiddles with the belt, tying it over Cas’ waist before finally taking a step back from him. 

“Better?” Dean asks, a well-practised grin on his face. It’s sincere for once– real. 

Cas looks shy, hands buried deep in the pockets of Dean’s bathrobe. But he nods, looking down at the bathroom tile for a beat before finally meeting Dean’s eyes. “Much.” 

Dean nods back, feeling a little ridiculous, the two of them standing there like that when a few minutes ago Dean’s hands were everywhere on Cas’ body. 

“You hungry?” Dean offers, though the memory of Cas’ being sick is still fresh in his mind. Instead of replying, Cas yawns very loudly, making Dean chuckle slightly. “Or maybe more sleep, uh?” 

Cas hums. “Yes,” he replies, dark circles under his eyes. “I still feel…” he trails off, then shrugs, like the transformation and its effects are beyond words right now. 

Dean can definitely understand that. 

“Alright,” he says, opening the bathroom door and placing a hand on the small of Cas’ back, leading him through the bunker’s maze of corridors. “Let’s get you to bed, buddy,” Dean continues when he wants to say _sweetheart,_ when he’s wanted to say sweetheart for years but never thought he deserved it, always thought Cas deserved more than that, more than him. 

He’s not the one who is going to make that choice though, not after what Cas said. They fought so hard for their damned free will, Dean isn’t going to decide for both of them by not saying shit. He’s an option. He can be an option. As soon as he gets the courage to bring it up. 

Dean leads him towards his own bedroom and when Cas makes a small noise of confusion in the back of his throat, he explains: “Your bed is still a mess. I’ll wash the sheet while you sleep, but for now…” He hums, softly pushing Cas through the threshold of his bedroom, instead of one of the many empty ones, heart somehow beating out of sync at the thought, like he’s a twelve years old girl with a crush or something. It makes him feel irrationally angry for a heartbeat – an out of sync one. 

Once they’re both in there, Dean helps Cas sit down on his bed and tries not to think too much about the implications, tries not to acknowledge his heart fluttering at the sight. Distractedly, aiming to look anywhere but at Cas’ face, at Cas’... everything, his eyes fall to his naked feet instead, toes curled against the cold floor. And that seems so wrong somehow, for him to be so warm, for Dean to have so carefully bundled him up, while his feet are exposed. It’s quite the oversight, leaving Cas unshielded like that, Dean thinks, something softening deep within him. He can’t let this slide, the instinct to protect too strong for him to stifle it, even if the only thing he’s protecting Castiel from right now is a cold draft. 

Silently, he holds an index up to stop Cas from sliding under the covers and when Cas tilts his head, eyes sleepy, Dean smiles at him, unable to hold back when he looks so rumpled and relaxed, wet hair ruffled and sticking up everywhere. Once upon a time, Castiel led armies in Heaven and here he is, adorably falling asleep in Dean’s bed. It helps that colour has finally started to return to his cheeks, the nap, and especially the shower, doing wonders for his well-being. He still seems tired, the exhaustion of the reshaping of his entire cosmic being not something that will vanish with a couple of hours of shuteye, but he no longer looks on the brink of death. The gnarling in the bottom of Dean’s stomach, the incessant pit of _worry_ , has finally quietened. A little. 

Dean goes to grab the thickest socks he owns, closing the bottom drawer of his wardrobe with a small kick, before turning back towards his bed. Even though he knows to expect it, the sight of Cas rubbing one of his eyes, just sitting there in Dean’s bedroom like he was always meant to, like he’s always belonged there – and he has, of course, he has – feels like a horse kick to the chest. Dean is left breathless, overwhelmed. Not for the first time since Cas’ return, Dean has to violently remind himself to calm down. It’s all going to be okay now. No matter what happens, Cas is back and that means it’s all going to be okay. Dean can deal with whatever else. 

“Here,” Dean says to fill the silence, voice rough, nervous though he doesn’t know why. A few minutes ago he was touching Cas’ naked body and suddenly, the thought of looking at him in the eyes seems too intimate. 

He gets closer to the bed and just as he’s about to hold the socks out for Cas to put on, he changes his mind, kneeling at Cas’ feet, reverent.

His hands are light on Cas’ ankle, thumb rubbing on the bone. Cas visibly reacts to the touch, shivers, and when Dean looks up, their eyes meet, Cas’ already on his, intense and focused, the kind of gaze that told Dean his entire soul was bare for Cas to read back when he was an angel. It still hits the same even knowing Cas doesn’t have that ability anymore. Purposefully, Dean repeats the gesture. He wonders, briefly, if Cas has ever been touched there, if anyone he spent time with as a human ever gently pressed their fingers right there, if the skin is new, if the body is too. He wonders if the Empty rebuilt Cas somehow minus the grace before spitting him out back to Dean. He wonders if every single piece of skin he just touched in the shower was being touched for the very first time, if that’s why it seemed so overwhelming. A phantom hand burns against Dean’s left shoulder as he thinks back to Cas remaking him anew after his descent into Hell; Cas leaving a brand right there on Dean’s body, on Dean’s soul. ‘I touched him first,’ it said. Dean’s mind flickers back to the bloody handprint he never even tried to wash from his jacket… ‘I touched him last,’ the wound said. Dean finally looks away, rubbing Cas’ ankle again, fiercely imagining it leaving a thumbprint, wishing, beyond reason, that his touch could brand in the same way. Then, he slides the sock on Cas’ feet, one after the other, squeezing them once before clearing his throat and getting back up. 

“Dean –” Cas begins to say, an open look on his face and Dean _cannot_ do this. Not yet, not now. 

“We’ll talk later,” he interrupts a little roughly, rougher than he intends, emotions bubbling to the surface as he leans away and starts fumbling with his bedding, making space for Cas to slide underneath. “Just rest for now,” Dean continues, pressing a hand to Cas’ shoulder, silently inviting him to lie down. 

This time, the urge to lie down next to him is almost unbearable.

But Dean shakes his head and tucks Cas in without meeting his eyes again once he’s horizontal. 

“We’ll talk later,” he repeats, mumbles really, before hitting the light and leaving the room like a coward. 

*

Dean doesn’t know how long Cas sleeps for. 

After leaving his room – and he refuses to think of it as running away even though that’s absolutely what he did – Dean goes back to the bathroom, quickly cleaning the tub from the mixture of black goo and blood that still stuck after he helped Cas wash. Somehow, there are flickers of ‘Empty’ all the way up the wall and Dean makes a show of growling at the no longer animated substance on Cas’ behalf, a nonsensical, yet overwhelming sense of victory and poetic justice taking hold of him as he washes it down the drain. 

_Fuck that bitch._

Then, he grabs the dirty washcloth, towel, and blanket he left behind, bundling them in his arms before walking back towards Cas’ room. 

It’s as void of any personal touches as ever, but the sight of the obviously slept in bed makes Dean smile, half a grin, only a tiny thing in the corner of his mouth really. Dirty sheets and twisted blankets, one of the pillows on the floor, not to mention the glass of water and the bowl Dean left behind; all proof that it’s real, that Cas is really here. 

And Dean knows that. Of course, he does, his hands are still tingling from the warmth of Cas’ skin against his fingers. 

Still, after months of drowning in his sorrow, months of loneliness trying to rejoice in the face of his brother’s happiness, in the face of their evident victory, the reminder is more than welcome. 

He almost doesn’t want to clean it up, foolishly attached to what it means as he is. But he can just pop back into his room for proof of Cas’ continued existence if he starts worrying again. And Cas will need his room back – cleaned and functional now that he’s human – eventually. 

Well… He might need his room back. 

So, Dean keeps himself busy, grabbing the sheets stained with Cas’ blood, with dirt, with whatever the hell the Empty is made of. He grabs the blankets that aren’t as bad but still needs a thorough wash. Then, he grabs the pillowcases off the pillows. He bundles it all up into his arms with the towel and the rest, probably dirtying himself in the process, and finally makes his way to the laundry room. 

There, he drops everything to the floor before grabbing one item at the time to check them over, spraying the worst of it with some stain remover and pre-washing the blood out with cold water and soap. He’s about to start the load when he looks at himself and his dirty, relatively rumpled clothes. He’s got a few wet spots where his tee-shirt clings, from the shower or the laundry, or both. Dean tilts his head, bringing his shirt up to his nose, sniffing, trying to remember the last time he changed. He’s not even sure what it is anymore, all of them blurred after Sam took off with his girlfriend. The movement unveils a big dirt stain on the bottom of his tee and Dean grimaces, taking the plaid shirt off, then the dirty tee-shirt underneath, throwing both in the washing machine. Dean scratches his lower belly absently, looking down at his jeans before shrugging, bending down to unlace his boots, taking them, the jeans, and his socks off. He leaves the boots aside and adds the jeans and socks to the machine before finally starting it. 

With most of the work he set for himself done, Dean exhales slowly, both hands resting on the machine, head bowed down, in his boxer, letting seconds pass until he actually starts feeling the cold against his naked skin.

Cas is going to wake up soon. Eventually. He’s going to wake up and they’re going to talk. They’ll have to. After months of saying nothing about what happened, after months of Sam’s pitying glances, the unspoken truth tense between them like an elastic band about to snap, the thought is a little heady, a little dizzying. He knows what he wants, yet, when Cas looked at him _like that_ back in his room, his flight or fight instinct utterly betrayed him. 

He’s always been a fight kind of guy. And this is something he definitely wants to fight for, something he defied more than one cosmic entity for. So why, when Cas gave him such a meaningful – such an open – look, did he fucking _bail_? 

“Fuck,” Dean mumbles to himself, banging his fist once against the washing machine. 

He promised himself he wasn’t going to do this. He promised himself he was going to… 

Dean shakes his head, refusing to allow the thought to go any further. 

Angrily, he bends down to pick up his boots before exiting the laundry room, ignoring the goosebumps erupting on his arms as he gets into the corridor, a space somehow much colder. He feels the air hit his lower back uncomfortably and he wrinkles his nose, closing the door behind him more forcefully than needed. He’s about to make his way back to his room for a change of clothes when he has a flash of panic, trying to remember if he left his phone in the pocket of his jeans like the distracted dumbass that he is. He’s about to turn back to fish it out of the machine when he has a flash and remembers leaving it in the kitchen after his call with Sam. 

He exhales with relief. 

At least one thing he didn’t fuck up today, Dean thinks distractedly, turning back towards his bedroom. 

Once he gets to the door, he leaves his boots outside, silently opening it and peeking inside, reassured to see Cas is still deep in sleep. It seems peaceful too, no rustling under the covers or agitated turning back and forth the way Dean does almost every night. That’s good. The last thing Cas needs after everything is nightmares. 

Dean slides into the room carefully, barely pushing on the door to close it, making sure he’s as silent as possible. Though he’s pretty certain with how exhausted he is, Cas could sleep through the next apocalypse. 

Still, it’s no reason not to be mindful so Dean very silently picks up a different tee-shirt, plaid shirt, jeans combination for himself. He’s about to leave the room to get dressed in the corridor when Cas moves in his sleep, turning away from Dean and wrapping his arms around one of the pillows, curling further on himself under the covers, the nape of his neck suddenly exposed. 

Relief, and something else, something deeper, spread through Dean’s chest at the sight. 

He smiles, feeling quite moved, taking a few steps away from the door and towards the bed without even noticing. It’s only when his fingers are a breath away from the skin of Cas’ neck that Dean realises he moved at all. He curls them into a fist a little defeatedly before changing his mind and committing to the caress. Cas hums in response and Dean tenses, suddenly afraid of getting caught – though doing what that’s so terrible, he doesn’t know – but Cas is still peaceful, still sleeping. Relieved, Dean takes his time rubbing his thumb right there on Cas’ neck, burying the rest of his fingers in Cas’ hair. He lets himself enjoy the moment, just for a second, grounding himself, reminding himself that this is _real_ , that Cas is here. Then, he lets go and silently makes his way out of the room, quickly getting dressed in the corridor. Once that’s done, Dean slowly walks back to the kitchen. 

He hasn’t eaten in ages and while he’s struggling to find his appetite, with his nerves being the way that they are, it seems a good enough option as far as ‘things to hold his attention as he waits for Cas to wake up’ go. He heats up a small bowl of soup, stirring it clockwise then counterclockwise for a while as he tries to work up to it. His stomach feels too much in knots for much of anything for the longest time, but, eventually, once it’s almost cold again, Dean does eat it. With that done, he gets up from the table, does his dishes, paces the length of the kitchen a few times, sits back down, then gets back up again, legs bouncing with anxious energy. The pacing doesn’t help so Dean grabs his phone, trying to think of a good way to text Sam about Cas being back, going so far as drafting a couple of texts before giving up, tossing his cell aside, frustrated. He hasn’t even talked to Cas yet. He told himself he wouldn’t tell Sam anything until…

Dean groans, sitting back down and massaging his temple. It feels like a lifetime has passed since Cas went to sleep. He’s not hungry anymore, but he still gets up, rummaging through the fridge to grab enough ingredients to make a sandwich, anything, _anything,_ to keep himself busy, to stop himself from _thinking_. So he makes one for himself, then one for Cas, just in case, for later. 

He eats his slowly, picking at the crust like a child and it’s not until a while later, until after what feels like forever, Dean’s head bowed over his empty plate, hands in his hair, that a noise startles him out of his thoughts and he spots Cas just as he enters the kitchen. 

Without thinking, Dean gets up at the sight, his chair scratching loudly against the floor. 

“Cas.” 

“Hello Dean,” Cas says, finally looking well-rested. There are colours back to his cheeks now, the bags under his eyes still present but much less prominent than they were before. His hair is dry in messy tangles and he looks soft, in Dean’s clothes, in Dean’s bathrobe. But more importantly, he looks _here_ , blue eyes wide and piercing, awake and well enough to hold a conversation, awake and well enough to look like himself again. 

Dean makes his way across the kitchen in two strides, has his arms around Cas’ shoulders, pressing their bodies tight together before he even has time to decide he’s going to do it, Cas’ little ‘oh’ muffled against Dean’s chest as they hug. 

“It’s really,” Dean starts, voice strangled, “ _really_ good to see you up and about.” 

Cas doesn’t say anything back, his body feeling tense, perhaps embarrassed, in Dean’s arms before he starts relaxing slightly, arms coming up to hold Dean back. Dean closes his eyes and tightens his arms around Cas’ shoulders at that, letting the hug linger, needing it to. 

It’s a long time before either of them say anything.

Finally, when Dean starts feeling like he’s indulged himself too long, he lets go, taking a small step back, not moving fully away before cupping Cas’ jaw and looking at him for a second, deep into his eyes, silently asking if he’s okay, or just reassuring himself that he really is. 

“You good? Right?” Dean asks, gruff, before he lets go of Cas’ face. 

Cas smiles back at him, a small crooked thing, the right corner of his mouth turned up, barely expressive but still looking pleased, like Dean’s worry is something to be treasured. 

“Yes.” 

Dean nods, finally fully stepping away, walking back towards the table. “I’ve got some broth for you and I’ve made a sandwich too? But if you want anything –” 

“No,” Cas interrupts, waving him off as he makes his way to the table too, sitting down. “That sounds perfect.” 

Cas eats in silence, clearly enjoying it while Dean enjoys watching him. He takes the soup first, carefully dipping tiny pieces of bread in it and humming happily as he eats them, and Dean tries not to blush at the thought that he did that, he made that little happy sound happen. Then, Cas eats the sandwich Dean made for him. Then, he requests a second one and eats that one too. 

It’s easy like this. They don’t have to say anything, but Dean knows it can’t stay that way. He can’t let it. 

“So,” Dean says once Cas is full. 

“So,” Cas echoes, sliding his fingers into each other and letting them rest in front of his empty plate. 

They look at each other in silence for a beat, before Dean chuckles, looking away. This is his best friend. And he doesn’t know what to say. Luckily, he doesn’t have to torture himself very long, because Cas speaks again, a serious look on his face when Dean looks back at him. 

“What’s the plan?” 

Dean tilts his head, frowning. The what? “The... plan?” he repeats, hesitant. “What are you talking about?” 

Somehow, at that, Cas’ face morphs into a slightly irritated look. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding more annoyed than sorry. “I know…” he stops, then sighs. A shadow passes across his face before he tries again, calmer now, sincere. “I know I’m not as useful without my grace.” Cas says it plainly, like it’s obvious that a human version of him is far from ideal, like just the fact that he’s here isn’t anything short of a miracle for Dean. “I know that,” he repeats, voice firmer this time. “But you know I’ll do everything I can to help you stop God.” 

And that… that is so far from what Dean expected him to say. 

“What?” he says, half-whispers really. Cas thinks… Dean shakes his head, still frowning. How could they be misunderstanding each other so. “You think I went to get you to stop Chuck?” Dean finally asks, feeling a bit offended, though he’s not sure if it’s on Cas’ behalf or his. 

And Cas… Cas looks at Dean with all the innocence in the world, eyes wide as he tilts his head slightly, the move so _him_ Dean feels it all the way down to his toes. Dean knows he’s not the most open of guys, he knows that, but surely Cas has to know. He has to know why Dean went back for him. 

“Didn’t you?” 

Dean shakes his head slowly. “Chuck is gone, Cas. He’s… He’s been gone a while now. He doesn’t have his powers anymore.” 

“Oh.” A look of utter confusion settles on Castiel’s face as he’s trying to puzzle it out. 

“It took… It took a minute to figure out how to…” Dean trails off. How to get you back? How to be a person again now that agency was on the table? How to untangle the mix of _feelings_ tugging in his stomach whenever Dean thought of Cas and what he’d done, what he’d _said._

Cas doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Dean, waiting patiently for him to find the words but he doesn’t have any. If Cas felt freer, felt true happiness saying all those things he did the last time they saw each other then Dean feels nothing but _dread, confusion,_ at the thought of doing the same. 

He doesn’t think there’s a word that’s been invented yet for all the things that Cas has come to mean for him. And if there is one, Dean, with his GED and his practical brain, doesn’t know it. 

“How to get you out of that Empty deal...” Dean finally says, though that’s an edited, simpler version of events. 

“I see. Well, thank you.” 

Dean nods and carries on, instead of replying. “I’m just sorry you had to lose your grace for it,” he says, looking down at his own empty plate he never washed. “If I had known…” Dean shakes his head. Would he have acted any differently? Would he have been less selfish? Would he have left Cas to rest? He takes a second to imagine it, the rest of his life without Castiel: barren years where he’d try his best to carry on; an absence like a presence at his side; the ghost of everything Cas’ has come to mean to him as his only companion. No, Dean doesn’t think he would have been strong enough to let go. He’s always been weak like that when it comes to Cas, has always lost himself the moment he was gone. 

“That hardly matters Dean,” Cas replies in the darkened kitchen, the skin between his eyebrows pinched as he frowns.

“Every…” Dean shakes his head. Of course, it doesn’t matter because Cas is Cas, superpowered angel of the Lord or not. But clearly, this transition has been painful, is painful, and Dean… Dean can’t not feel guilt and grief for it. “Every part of you matters Cas. I know it’s harder than last time, more…. More painful, but we’ll figure it out, yeah?” 

It comes out a little plaintive, a little desperate, but Dean can’t help but need reassurance that they _will,_ that Cas is here to stay now, that they can work it out. 

Cas laughing isn’t the response Dean imagined, but it’s the one he gets, a small, disbelieving thing as Cas shakes his head, eyes fixed on the kitchen floor. Then, after a beat, he looks back up at Dean, fond. 

“Trust me, Dean, this is a lot less painful than last time,” he says and Dean… Dean is pretty sure he doesn’t want to hear about this, doesn’t want to think about the implications, doesn’t want to think Cas might have… might have loved him already back then, how he might have felt when Dean sent him away. Cas shakes his head again. “Thank you,” he finally says, open, full of sincerity, face void of expectations. “For…. rescuing me, for taking care of me.” 

It’s like an angel blade between the ribs, precise and sharp, the pain of the matter-of-factly way Cas expresses his gratitude, like Dean is going out of his way taking care of him, like he’s doing him a favour, like Cas is some sort of _burden_ , takes his breath away. 

“Of…. Of course,” Dean says, but it wasn’t always so and he knows it. 

He blinks, hard, refusing to let _himself cry_. Dean is a grown man in his forties, he can own up to his mistakes, can apologise to the man he… He can apologise without making a spectacle of it. 

“I know I haven’t always treated you right,” Dean finally manages to say. It burns his throat on the way out. All he’s had since Cas last died for him, since Chuck was defeated, are his regrets. 

“Dean –” 

“I know,” Dean repeats, insistently. 

“Neither have I,” Cas replies plainly and maybe it’s that simple, maybe starting over for them doesn’t have to be a big deal. 

Dean nods in acknowledgement. “Well, for what it’s worth, I am sorry. For all of it. And you… You never have to thank me for this,” Dean points towards the kitchen, their empty plates, words like ‘taking care of you’ stuck in his throat. “And I meant what I said,” he continues. “We’ll figure this whole….” Dean gestures vaguely towards Cas’ entire being, the sweatpants, the old henley, the bathrobe still wrapped around his shoulders. “This whole human thing out. Together. You can… You can hunt, or… you know…” he trails off, thinking back to the job application still on his desk, the small desire to do something _different_ , something just for _him,_ that’s been growing ever since they got rid of Chuck and he’s been the only one steering the wheel flares deep in his chest. “You can do whatever you want.” 

Cas doesn’t say anything for a long while. He just looks at Dean, looks through Dean, gaze soft, and did he always look at him like that? Was Dean just too blind, too scared that angels _couldn’t,_ to see it before? 

“That sounds good, Dean,” Cas finally says after a lifetime. He shrugs, a puzzled smile on his face, before speaking again. “I don’t know what I could possibly do,” he admits, widening his eyes, seemingly considering a short human life for the very first time, “but I suppose it’s good to know you’ll… be there.” 

He says the last part hesitantly and the weight of his confession settles over them heavily for the first time. 

When their eyes finally meet, they both know that they are thinking about it. Dean knows he must look like a deer caught in headlights, if the way Cas smiles, slightly tense, and mostly knowing, is any indication. 

He absolutely cannot fuck this up.

He also has no idea how to do this, is nowhere near ready, even though he’s been thinking about it nonstop for months now as he relentlessly searched for a way to get Cas back. 

So, cowardly in many ways, Dean sidesteps this landmine Cas laid on their friendship in his corpse’s wake. 

“Of course I’ll be there for you buddy,” he replies like it’s obvious and the second the word buddy comes out of his mouth, Dean is filled with such fierce self-loathing he almost chokes on it. “You’re fa–” He’s about to carry on, to say ‘you’re family’ and Cas _is_ so Dean doesn’t know why he can’t get it out, but family – the one thing he’s held sacred above all others, the one thing he’s fought for his entire life – doesn’t seem like _enough_ for what Castiel has come to mean to him. 

Instead, what comes out, strangled, unsophisticated, with more than a hint of desperation is "what did you mean?” and Dean specifies, even though the way Cas’ eyes widen and his entire posture stiffen, making him look more like his angelic self, are tells enough that he knows exactly what Dean is talking about. “When you summoned the Empty… you said… What did you mean?” 

Cas closes his eyes, then sighs. “Dean,” he says, exhaustion in his voice the way only a celestial beam of light that’s lived through several millennia can express it. 

They both know what he meant. Dean has been obsessively excavating every single word, every breath, every pause, of that speech since he first heard it. He knows exactly what Cas meant because Cas made sure there was no ambiguity and yet, selfishly, before he says anything else, he needs more reassurance. Still and again, disbelieving and overwhelmed, he wants Cas to say it. 

“What did you mean?” Dean repeats, neediness cackling like a live wire beneath his skin. 

Finally, Cas opens his eyes again, face more closed off. Dean, who knows him probably better than anyone else, can’t read him right now and that... that hurts. “We don’t have to talk about this. I know where we stand, Dean.” 

“Do you?” Dean laughs, disbelieving, even a bit hysterical. “Because I certainly don’t.” 

A myriad of emotions passes on Cas’ face as he takes in what Dean just said, what he implied, what it might _mean_. “Oh,” Cas whispers, realises. Dean thinks he might be hallucinating a faint glow around him as hope blossoms. “I…” 

“Wait,” Dean interrupts, not wanting to lose steam, to lose his nerves. Cas already said his piece months ago. He already told Dean how he felt. It’s selfish to ask more of him. Besides, it’s his turn now and he’s going to need that strength and courage he was praying for earlier. “Let me…” Dean stops himself, wide-eyed. What’s wrong with him that he can’t even say this? He faced God and _won,_ but somehow, this is more terrifying. 

Except he didn’t have that much to lose facing God. He’d already lost Cas then, anything else seemed to matter less. 

“Let me… You’ve already…” Dean grunts, getting frustrated with himself. He passes a hand through his hair, nervous, agitated. He wishes he had a drink, wishes he didn’t have to do this sober. He’s not sure what time it is though, and he’s pretty sure Cas wouldn’t approve of him getting drunk just to be emotionally vulnerable. He wouldn’t judge, of course, it’s Cas, but he wouldn’t approve. Besides, Dean feels like it would cheapen the moment somehow, even if it might give him the bravery boost he needs. Doing this sober makes it more real in ways he can’t quite quantify. “I’m not good at this,” Dean finally says instead of ‘I love you too’, laughing ruefully and shaking his head. “It took you leaving me for me to admit I was an ass and say I’m sorry, so of course it took you dying for me to admit I –” 

It gets stuck in his throat, it always gets stuck in his throat. Dean closes his eyes, tightening his hands into fists on the table, inhaling deeply.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Cas says softly in the face of Dean’s evident turmoil and he does, he really does. If he wants things to be different, to be better, Dean has got to learn how to do this. He’s got to learn how to not be afraid of this. 

It’s _Cas,_ damnit. There isn’t anyone he trusts more in the universe, except for Sammy. 

“No, I –” 

“I know, Dean,” Cas interrupts, “I’ve always known,” and Dean, who has been haunted by Cas’ voice saying ‘the one thing I want is something I know I can’t have’ ever since he first heard it, doesn't think he does actually. But Cas carries on. “I could hear prayers, remember? But it was always more than that. Angels we… I could feel longing too.” 

If this were anyone else, Dean would choke on shame at this revelation. Has he been filled with anything but terrible longing for Castiel ever since they first met in that barn so many years ago? Ever since Cas first cradled his soul? Ever since Cas _saved him_. Like a compass pointing North, Dean has been orienting himself towards the angel who saved his life for a decade now, wanting and wanting and wanting. And all this time Cas could feel it? 

And if he did, how could he possibly say they don’t have to talk about this, how could he possibly say he knows where they stand.

“I never thought it meant…” Cas smiles, softly, privately. “I never thought it meant what I wanted it to.” 

Where they stand is on the edge of a precipice and Dean is working up the courage to let himself go, to _jump._

“It does,” Dean manages to say, choked up. He shakes his head, tightening his jaw as he looks away. Slowly, he passes a hand over his cheek, catching a tear. Why is this so hard? Licking his lower lip, Dean faces Cas again, nodding at him from across the kitchen table. “It does,” he repeats and this time, he lets himself smile back. 

So they just sit there, staring at each other with dumb smiles on their faces. Dean isn’t one for poetics, for all that time slows down as he gazes into his lover’s eyes bullshit, but time does kind of stop mattering for a bit there, the undeniable certainty of Cas’ feelings for him making something soft settle in his lower belly. 

It really is going to be all okay, Dean thinks, happy ending that Chuck wanted to deny them included, and that, suddenly, makes him laugh. 

“What?” Cas asks, laughing along with him without even knowing why and Dean shrugs, sheepish now, but still grinning, reaching across the table to take one of Cas’ hands between his, his thumb soft on Cas’ wrist. 

“Nothing,” Dean says, mostly to himself. “Just really happy to have you back.” 

“You’ll tell me what happened? With Chuck and Jack and….” 

Dean nods, tightening his grip on Cas’ hand. “Of course. Once you’re properly rested, I’ll tell you everything.” 

“All I’ve done is rest since I’ve been back Dean,” Cas says matter-of-factly. “Tell me,” he demands, putting his other hand over Dean’s, the two of them tangled, and suddenly, it’s not enough, it seems so ridiculous how far apart they’re sitting, considering. 

“This is stupid,” Dean mutters to himself, letting Cas’ hands go and getting up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. 

“Dean?” 

Cas sounds confused but Dean doesn’t take the time to explain, just walks around the table until he reaches his chair.

“Just let me,” Dean whispers as he leans down, sliding one hand on the back of Cas’ neck, the other reaching down, blinding trying to grab Cas’ hand and landing somewhere in the pocket of the bathrobe he’s still wearing. Dean grasps the fabric uselessly as he presses their lips together and okay, it’s a little clumsy – he hasn’t done this with a guy, with anyone really, in…. a while, and it’s _Cas_ so he is nervous – but his entire body still lights up from the inside. Cas leans into him with a small hum, hands grabbing at Dean’s hips to keep him close when he tries to break the kiss. 

_Okay,_ Dean thinks as he deepens the kiss, letting go of the bathrobe to cup Cas’ jaw. _Okay, wow._

The angle is awkward at best and Dean’s lower back twinges, reminding him quite unpleasantly that he was tossed into a bookshelf fuck knows how many hours ago, but he can’t care about this. Not now this is happening. 

They break apart for a second, both of them out of breath, and Dean was going to say something meaningful, except Cas’ grip on his hips tightens as he licks his lower lip, tantalizing without even meaning to and Dean has to kiss him again, has to bite that lip. He has to. 

Somewhere between kisses, Dean finally manages to talk. 

“We should have done this a long time ago,” he mumbles, somewhere against Cas’ jaw. 

“Yes,” Cas agrees enthusiastically, his hold on Dean’s hips tightening again. 

For a second, Dean wonders if Cas knew it from the start, if he knew it in Hell, if he wanted back then before he truly knew what it meant. Did it creep up on him? The more he understood mankind? It certainly crept up on Dean, slowly and then all at once, until he understood he’d been there almost all along. 

Fated, in some ways. Not by God’s will, but against it. 

It’s too big to think about, so Dean doesn’t. Instead, he drags Cas out of his chair, looking for a better angle, never stopping the kissing. Dean doesn’t realise Cas is pushing him around until his back hits the counter, the bruises there flaring painfully.

Cas notices, of course, he does, because he’s Cas and he doesn’t need angelic powers to be attuned to people – attuned to Dean. 

His thumbs dig into Dean’s hip bones as he tilts his head away, frowning. 

“You’re hurt,” he says with a soft, yet disgruntled voice, like the mere thought of Dean being in pain is a personal affront. 

Dean grins, masking the grimace of pain because that’s who he is, that’s what he does. He’s the strong one, the eldest, and that means being okay even when he’s not. “I’m old,” he corrects jokingly, stretching his back for a second. It’s not even untrue. 

Cas doesn’t laugh, thoroughly unsatisfied by Dean’s dismissal of his own suffering. But then, he always was; frowning disapprovingly every time a fake ‘I’m okay’ came tumbling out of Dean’s mouth over the years. Dean always wondered if Cas’ was too powerful to be lied to, or if he just always knew him too well and could see through the facade. 

Instead of joking along, Cas reaches up to cradle Dean’s jaw, thumb soft, tender, against Dean’s skin and he has to close his eyes, suddenly overwhelmed by the gesture. After a second, Dean feels Cas’ lips press against the corner of his mouth, then his jaw, his other hand sliding under Dean’s shirt to reach his lower back where the skin is tender. Dean stiffens without meaning to, a small whimper, more pleasure than pain, shamefully escaping from the back of his throat. Cas’ fingers are light on Dean’s back, warm, and it’s barely a touch but Dean feels it like electricity through his entire body. 

When he finally feels ready to open his eyes again, he notices the pain on Cas’ face. 

“Cas?” Dean asks, uncertain, and instead of replying, Cas lets go of his face and his back at the same time, the warmth of him suddenly, brutally, gone, even though he hasn’t even moved away. 

“I could have taken away your pain easily,” Cas says, closing his eyes and shaking his head, a frown pitched between his eyebrows. “Even with my powers fading the way they were, I could have… Before…” 

“I’m not in pain,” Dean says reassuringly, because he’s not, not a lot, and it doesn’t matter that Cas can’t do that stuff anymore. Not when he’s here. “Cas, it’s okay.”

“I could always fix it,” Cas continues, contrite. “Now, I….” He shakes his head, grief written all over his face, and Dean knows it’s about more than the twinges in his back. It’s about Cas losing a part of himself and that’s not sorrow a snap of a finger, or one touch, can cure. “Witnessing pain is always a difficult process, but especially yours,” he adds, utterly sincere and Dean is pretty sure his heart is about to fall out of his ass. 

“This fixes it,” he whispers, softly, putting both hands on Cas’ hips and kissing him again.

* 

It’s late one morning, months later, Dean’s room darkened except for the light coming from his phone as he silently scrolls through houses listings, trying his best to angle the screen so as not to wake Cas, sound asleep behind him, his arms tight around Dean’s torso. 

Dean hasn’t said anything yet, but he’s been looking a lot. 

At first, it was an accident. A sign in front of a house on the drive back from a hunt that made him go ‘uh’ as he imagined Cas sipping tea on that big porch, nose buried in a book. He dismissed the thought straight away – a silly fantasy that doesn’t need naming – but it kept coming up again and again, kept getting more elaborate as time went on. 

He’d think about it on hunts, driving through States, through towns, through neighbourhoods, wondering what kind of place he could see himself in, what kind of place Cas might enjoy.

So, one day, he started actually looking. Looking at houses in the area, houses on the other side of the country, East Coast, West Coast, smack right in the middle of fuck-all nowhere land; Dean looked at houses all over the place. 

They’re still taking cases, him and Cas – him and Sam too, though his brother likes hunting with Eileen more and more these days – but it’s with much less frequency now. And more and more, as he and Cas settle into this thing, Dean’s been thinking about a life beyond the bunker, a life beyond hunting. 

Sam’s going to move out soon. He hasn’t said it, but Dean knows the guy and he can tell him and Eileen are getting really serious, really fast. And they’re not going to raise his nieces and nephews underground; there’s no way. So maybe… maybe it’s time for the bunker to officially be a pit stop for hunters, a resource, and for Dean and Cas to have a proper home that’s theirs and no one else's…. 

Right now, he’s scrolling through pictures of a house only a few miles away that looks so haunted that Dean can smell it from here, but has a really nice kitchen – good cupboards and great counter space. Well, Dean thinks, sliding his thumb across the screen to get to the next photo, what’s a salt and burn in their line of work? Dean needs great counter space. And staying in Kansas might be good, Dean figures, especially if Sam keeps playing team leader to other hunters. He’ll want to say near the bunker, that’s for sure. And Dean’ll want to stay near enough to where Sam is. So. 

He’s still thinking about it a while later, back to the very first picture of the outside of the house, when there’s finally movement behind him. Dean never considered himself an early bird, but a few months into this thing with a human Cas has him reconsidering his definition. 

“Hey sleepyhead,” Dean calls over his shoulder, smiling to himself when Cas sleepily moves closer, pressing a few small kisses on Dean’s neck in response to his greeting. 

“What are you looking at?” Cas finally asks, looking over Dean’s shoulder, his voice even lower in the mornings, Dean’s favourite sound, soft but rough at the same time. 

Dean’s not fast enough to hide his phone from view, though he does awkwardly try, and Cas catches sight of the listing, making a small noise of surprise in the back of his throat. 

“I was just thinking…” Dean trails off, thumbing his phone for a second before pressing it face down on the mattress, finally hiding it fully. They’ve been slowly easing themselves into this thing, this couple thing, enjoying each other between a case here and there, learning how to be better for each other, seeing how they fit, how they’ve always fitted. There is little that’s actually changed, apart from the physicality, if Dean’s honest with himself. Some days, he feels like he and Cas have always been like this. In love. A partnership. The only difference now is that Dean can say so. And Sam knows. But this? This is a big step… even if they’re already technically living together. 

Cas hums in agreement, mostly still sleepy, but gently mocking. “It seems like it.” 

Dean chuckles. “Shut it,” he mumbles, but there’s no heat behind the words. 

“What were you thinking?” Cas finally asks after a while, when Dean still hasn’t explained. 

“I just… I just thought, you and me…. You know. We don’t have to stay here. We’ve barely been hunting anyway, so we could get someplace… not underground. A house, you know? Somewhere with big windows, and a garden. You’d like that,” Dean adds like an afterthought, like he hasn’t been thinking about it non-stop, thinking about Cas, outside in the sun, tenderly caring for growing things, not a worry in the world anymore, the rest of his life stretching, filled with loving things the way only a heavenly soldier who rebelled for love can. 

For a while, Cas stays silent behind him and Dean wonders if he’s misread this. If maybe… maybe Cas enjoys hunting and the bunker and doesn’t want to give all of it up the way Dean finds himself longing for more and more. Maybe… Maybe they’re not on the same page about this. 

Then, finally, a whisper against the skin of Dean’s neck: “You should look at land instead,” Cas says and Dean hums, a small puzzled noise, not quite a question yet, before Cas continues, “If we’re going to build a life together, we should actually build it.” He says it so softly, his fingers sliding into Dean’s where they’re resting on Dean’s stomach. “You’re good with your hands,” Cas adds, and on someone else’s lips, under different circumstances, it would sound like an innuendo. 

Dean tightens his fingers against Cas’, imagining a house, a home, taking shape under their care. 

“Yeah,” he says, a little breathless, feeling a little dazed. He doesn’t have to only tear things down anymore. “Okay.” 

He can do this instead, Dean thinks, raising their tangled hands to his mouth, pressing his lips on Cas’ skin. 


End file.
